Or, Zeke Wasted as Winnie so eloquently put it.
I know waiting around for a guy to text you is a dumb thing to do—sadistic, really, and a little pathetic—but unlike a lot of guys, he isn’t playing games. He said he’s going to text me and I believe him.
I think.
I showed his letter to my roommates—a huge mistake, because obviously they’re both outraged on my behalf, having found me crying in the living room the night I blindly walked myself home from the library, too upset and blinded by tears and mascara to drive.
The letter sits on my desk.
I’ve read it at least fifty times, fingers running over the hurried lines. The messy, hurried scrawl. Black ink. Black mood.
For him to write that?
My stomach flutters thinking about it, thinking about those words. All the words, spewed onto that abused sheet of paper, ineloquent and unplanned.
The least I can do is be present when he texts, and I can’t do that unless I’m home.
I want to be home when he texts.
So I lie in my room on a Friday night, googling televised college wrestling. Find the schedule for Iowa. Find the network. Sprawled across my bed, remote in hand, flip through the TV menu until I find what I’m looking for.
Iowa versus Purdue.
I study the screen, transfixed. Study the sidelines and wrestlers as the camera pans the stadium.
I’ve never seen wrestling before, not in person and not on TV. Didn’t realize it was even a big deal until coming to Iowa, where wrestling reigns and the boys here are bred for it.
The stadium is massive; I don’t know what I was expecting, probably something comparable to a high school gym. This? Whole different level. The arena is massive.
The blue mats are huge.
There are wrestlers on my screen who are fast on their feet, stalking each other in the center of the mat, grappling for the upper hand. The guy in black suddenly has his opponent in a headlock, and I realize with a gasp that I recognize him.
Sebastian Osborne, Zeke’s roommate. It takes him two rounds to win his match.
The next Iowa wrestler is Patrick Pitwell; he wins as well.
Followed by Jonathon Powell, who takes three rounds.
Sophomore Diego Rodriguez takes just one—and loses.
Zeke Daniels walks onto the screen, his stats displayed on the bottom of the screen. He begins stretching his thick quads on the sidelines, removes his pants, sliding them down over his muscular thighs.
I feel my cheeks turn bright red, furiously blushing crimson despite being in the house alone. Those thighs in his wrestling uniform are firm and hard.
His very visible bulge lies flat against his lower stomach.
I know what both feel like between my legs; that spot gets hot and wet and blushes, too.
Overheated, I whip off my bedspread, flipping onto my back, staring at the ceiling. Catching my breath. Salvaging what’s left of my composure when it comes to this boy. Trying to get my temperature to drop and get a grip on the reality of what’s happening with us here.
Trying to focus on my screen.
I’ve never paid attention to wrestling, have no idea what those leotards they’re wearing are called. Leotards? No, that can’t be right.
I grab my laptop, flip it open, and search wrestling one-piece.
Wrestling singlet, noun. The uniform is tight-fitting so as not to get grasped by one’s opponent, allowing referees to see each wrestler’s body clearly when awarding points. Underneath the singlet, wrestlers can choose to wear nothing.
I get it now; I get why the girls on campus go crazy for these guys. Even jerks like Zeke Daniels.
Strong, powerful, and larger than life, he moves into the center of the ring. Grips his opponent’s hand to shake it. His pouty lips are set in a grim line, eyes bearing down on the wrestler from Purdue.
I’ve seen that look of determination in person. That formidable, unsmiling face. Felt his potency firsthand.
The announcer begins his commentary; the two wrestlers circle and lower their levels, blocking each other. Zeke’s opponent—a junior named Hassan—circles away, removing his hands so Zeke can’t get control of them.
Both wrestlers are grappling, bodies hunched, hands extended, both immobile for only a split second before Zeke makes his move. Striking fast.
He flies into action, grabbing Hassan by the inner thighs, hauling him up. Lifting. Hefting him up and over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Hassan is suspended in the air while Zeke gets into position to drop him to the mat so he’s flat on his back.
Zeke’s biceps and thighs ripple. Glisten.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, he’s going to drop him and break the poor kid’s back!
I can’t watch. I’m horrified.
I hold my breath, covering my gasp with the palm of my hand. Release it when Zeke slowly lowers his torso and adversary with steady, skilled precision to the mat without hurting him or losing control. Unbelievable strength.
The tattoo on his back strains with every shift, every calculated movement of his muscular, tight body. Sweat dampens his furrowed brow. His black hair. Perspiration beads on his back and chest.
Within seconds, he has Hassan pinned to that blue mat.
Seconds.
I stare, eyes wide when the referee counts out the win. Pounds the mat. Watch when both wrestlers rise to their feet, the referee taking Zeke’s wrist and raising it above his head, declaring him the victor of that match.
His chest heaves from the exertion he made look so effortless.
I’m trying to reconcile this sweating, aggressive Adonis with the one who’s been so gentle with me. Tender. Loving and kind with me in bed—not like the one in front of me now, hefting a two-hundred-pound human in the air like he’s weightless.